


Formal Invitation

by Silverlace_Vine



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cassandra can't help herself, Dorian is a sassy prat, M/M, Orlais is a wasteland of hopeless fops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:49:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3514286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverlace_Vine/pseuds/Silverlace_Vine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally written for the Dragon Age Kink Meme: </p><p>Dorian catches an Orlesian's noble eye during the ball. Dorian knows what the guy wants but before they can sneak out for a quick, meaningless fuck, the plot to assassinate Celene unravels, so, sadly, Dorian doesn't get any.</p><p>Several weeks/days after the ball, however, a formal letter arrives, requesting the Inquisitor's permission to court Lord Dorian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kisses and Tickles, Some Orlesian Fop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The anon on the kink meme who requested this](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=The+anon+on+the+kink+meme+who+requested+this).



 

The first letter arrives discreetly, written on plain parchment and sealed in a plain envelope, with a generic flower-crest stamp on the wax. It is addressed to the Inquisitor, and once Leliana is certain there's nothing suspicious about it (aside from it being so humble, unusual for anything coming out of Orlais), she remits it to her care without further interest.  
  
 _Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan,_

_It is my understanding that Ser Dorian Pavus has aligned himself with your cause in such a way that has estranged him from his family, so please accept my most sincere apologies if I have sent this letter to you in error; I am a man of tradition, and this is as tradition demands._

_During the festivities at the Winter Palace, I had the most fortunate pleasure of meeting Ser Pavus. I found his company most delightful, and the memories of our meeting (as well as your own stellar performance) that night have lent a comforting bit of light and color in my heart that would otherwise have been darkened by the machinations of the Duchess Florianne, and the lingering threats looming over Thedas._

_Now that those threats have been neatly swept aside by your ladyship, I have had time to revisit those memories, and I find I would make new ones to go with them. As I mentioned, I attempted to contact Ser Pavus' family to seek what I now ask of you, but I received no worthwhile reply._

_I would like your blessing that I may properly and honorably court Ser Pavus, if he will have me. My land holdings are modest, but I assure you my family line is a respectable one, and I am a wealthy man. I am also a widower, having lost my beloved Adelise to childbirth bringing my youngest into the world. I confess that part of my reason for writing you is that I mourned my Adelise for a long, long while after her death. He could not have known it at the time, but he brought a true, sincere smile to my face for the first time in two years, and I would be a fool not to at least reach out to him again._  
  
 _Most sincerely,_  
 _Everard de Falaise._  
  
  
Trevelyan sighs. Since when is the Inquisitor a mail service, or a Tevinter's doting mother? But she sets it aside. In an odd way she feels obligated to take it seriously, particularly because, however distant it might be, the Trevelyans are connected to the Pavus bloodline. If Halward elected not to dignify this man's request with a response, then as the highest-ranked member of Dorian's family at Skyhold, it does technically fall to her to decide.

She gets up from her desk and makes her way downstairs.  Before any decisions are made, Dorian should know.  
  


\--

  
"Well, it's _obviously_ some kind of trap." Dorian dismisses the very notion out of hand without even looking up from the bookshelf. "Regardless, this 'courtship' business is unnerving. What does he expect me to do? Blush and titter like some idiot princess? Pine away in a tower, waiting for his next artfully-arranged bouquet of flowers, perfume, and bullshit? Does he think sending poetry to the Inquisition's token Tevinter would be an exciting scandal?" He grabs three volumes off the shelf, tosses them into his armchair, and begins restlessly re-arranging the other six in the set. "Or is this someone's idea of a lazy prank?"

Trevelyan sighs and leans against the wall. "Leliana didn't suspect anything when she checked the letter out," she points out. "Who is this man, anyway?"

"Inquisitor, if I could recall _every_ person whose day was brightened by my being delightful company, I'd have to forget how to walk to make room for all the names," he spits.

"Apparently, you made more of an impression on this one than most. Do you really not recall anyone you spoke to at the Winter Palace?" She steps away long enough to collect the discarded books and hand them back to the rattled mage, steely gaze fixed on his and utterly unfazed by his grousing. "If it really is a trap, it would help if we knew where to start looking for leads, and if it isn't, I need an idea of how firm I need to be in dismissing him."

Dorian takes a breath, collects himself, and then gently takes the books back to return them to their places on the library shelf. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be belligerent about this, it's just that this is not something I can take seriously," he explains. "But now that I think of it, I did... pass a bit of time with some courtier while I was there. Tall, with a mask that had a garnet at the corner of each eye. Melancholy fellow, I remember wishing we'd brought Cole along to help him."

"Sounds consistent with a widower in mourning," Trevelyan muses.

"Widower?" The mage frowns in deep disapproval. "He was married?"

"And has children. I'd show you the letter to see for yourself, but I gave it to Josephine on the off chance she might know the name." She reaches for his shoulder, and watches him slump a little, one arm propping him up against the stone wall.

"There's... another thing to consider, Dorian."

"What else could there possibly be, Inquisitor? Is he a templar? A darkspawn? Both?"

"No, nothing like that. That I know of, anyway." The Inquisitor braces for it, half-smiling at her own thin joke, and then says, calmly, "He wrote to your family for their blessing first."

Dorian spins on his heel, hands flourishing in derision so hard the embellishments on his clothes clink, the vitriol practically dripping down his chin like the grease from a bad cut of meat as he speaks.  "Oh, that must have been just _charming_ , I wish I could have been there to see my father read it! ' _Dear Magister Pavus, I would like to compose a ballad about your son! And twine daisies in his hair while we prance about the fields naked and astride a unicorn, hope you won't mind! Kisses and tickles, some Orlesian fop_."   He steps away from the shelves, suddenly disinterested in fussing about with books and alphabetical order. 

Trevelyan can't suppress her laughter, and shakes her head. "I meant that he wrote your family to ask for their blessing, obviously didn't get it, and then wrote me instead," she explains, and moves to join him, leaning against the bannister on her forearms.  "You may not take this man seriously, Dorian, but he definitely seems serious about you. I've met your father. I wouldn't want to be a minor noble of anywhere and risk crossing him, let alone risk crossing him once by asking to court his son, and a second time by making it clear that the lack of that blessing wouldn't stop me."

The mage sighs, defeated.  "Then what would you have me do, Inquisitor?"

"The letter says he wants my blessing to court you, _if_ you'll have him," she explains, gently.  "I won't pretend I always have the best judgment, but he seems sincere, and if it pans out, this is a relationship you would never have in Tevinter.  If the idea of... a "traditional" courtship, whatever that is, doesn't appeal to you, I'll just have Sera tell him to piss off and that'll be the end of it, but I'd rather you not throw away a chance at happiness."

They're quiet for a long while, the rotunda echoing with footsteps and pages turning and the coming-and-going of Leliana's birds.   For the Altus overlooking it all, it's bizarre;  a conversation in the open about a man seeking to openly court another man with the blessing of his family, and yet no one here has batted an eye.  Naturally there'll be rumors and scandal and whatnot, but it's the "courtship" part that warrants the gossip, not the "between two men" part. 

He looks to his side, regarding Trevelyan's warm, encouraging smile, and that sense of drive and determination returns to him. He's already decided he'll go back to Tevinter to bring the whole damn Imperium to heel, but change is a slow, lumbering beast, and it would be a rare Tevinter gentleman who could love him through all the scandal.   Or love him openly enough to ask anyone for anything over it, for that matter.

Dorian straightens again, folds his arms over his chest.   "Then here is my decision, Inquisitor:  I'll accept this... Everard de whatever's courtship, on the conditions that Josephine can verify his identity and Leliana can confirm he has no ulterior motives. If he passes inspection, then you may go ahead and inform him that I prefer satin to silk, red wine to white, and I will not eat anything with ghoul's beard in it." 

Trevelyan smiles. "I'll check in at the war table about it tonight and get the matter squared away. I do hope this man knows what he's getting into."

"My friend," Dorian muses, "he petitioned the Herald of Andraste to endorse his courtship of her distant cousin and the lone Tevinter pariah of the Inquisition's inner circle. He either has no idea what he's doing, or he's the most arrogant prat in Orlais."

She laughs, and something about the genuine mirth about it puts a smile on Dorian's face; it's odd, considering that they've only known each other a short while, but it's comforting to have that little bit of filial camaraderie here, so far from home. She turns on her heel and heads for the stairs to Josephine's office, patting his shoulder on her way.

"One more thing, Inquisitor," he says.

"Yes?"

"See if you can find out what exactly my father said to him."   
  
  



	2. Not For Lack of Trying

  
The second letter arrives less modestly than the first, the sealed envelope nestled in a small-but-lush bouquet of blue and violet flowers, twined with sprigs of mint and accompanied by a bottle of red wine, all of it bundled together in an embroidered satin scarf.

Naturally, the great hall is buzzing within seconds of the courier passing through the gate.  Gifts to the Inquisition arrive from all over Thedas, but they're treasures, weapons, things useful to a fledgling army in an abandoned castle, nothing so romantic as flowers and wine-- at least, not since Cullen put in a standing order that all such things addressed to him be donated to somewhere as far away from Skyhold as possible. That alone would cause a stir, but when that courier asks to be directed to one Ser Dorian of House Pavus, the rumor mill begins its work in earnest.

Accustomed to being stared at and whispered about by now, the mage generously tips the courier for his trouble (which had to have been considerable, traveling on foot through snowcapped mountains to bring an armload of delicate flowers), and then takes his presents straight upstairs to Leliana for inspection. 

"Goodness," she quips. The side of her that flourishes in the thrust-and-parry of the Game practically glows as her eyes alight on the riot of color and shine.   "I take it these are from your dear Ser Everard. What does the letter say?"

"He's not my 'dear' anything," Dorian reminds her, "but not for lack of trying.  And I haven't read it yet, I thought I'd have you... inspect it, for whatever might be in it.  Poison in the wine, or code in the letter, maybe, because I--"

"Leliana, I thought I might-- oh."  Heavy bootsteps and a not-quite-nonchalant voice echoes up from the stairwell just before Cassandra appears on the landing, holding a sheaf of papers in one hand. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting?"

"Princess Pentaghast! You hopeless romantic, how charming of you to come share in this moment with me.  You've come at just the right time, we're about to check to see if the letter has been sensually spritzed with cologne. Care to take the first whiff?" Dorian offers her the envelope with a smug smile spread across his face.  

The Seeker lightly bats it away with her own handful of parchment as if deflecting a blow with a shield. "Do  _not_ call me that again, or I will toss you over the railing. And your business is your own, I only came to speak to Leliana about these reports."  

Leliana leans forward, propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin in her palms. "The ones about the lyrium smuggler in Denerim? That I gave to Cullen almost a month ago? Come now, Cassandra, surely we're better friends than that." 

She pouts and, for a brief moment, almost looks like she might stick to her story, before dropping the papers on a nearby crate in socially out-maneuvered defeat.  "I couldn't help myself!" she explains, in a tone that is just a few tones shy of a proper whine,  "I saw the courier bringing them, and then some of the Orlesians in the courtyard were talking about the flowers and what they meant, and... I just had to see it with my own eyes."

Cassandra sighs, and lets a lingering, wistful gaze rest on the lovely blooms now resting at the edge of the table.  "I apologize, Dorian, I didn't mean to pry into your affairs.  Or I did, a little, but I meant no offense or disrespect."

"None taken, Cassandra. Honestly, if our situations were reversed, I'd probably be prying just as much and I'd probably not be apologizing as much as I should.  Now, Leliana, about the safety issue..."

"Safety issue?"

The spymaster gestures to the flowers, the wine and the trappings with them.  "Dorian is concerned about the legitimacy of this courtship, and the possibility that this is some kind of trap."

The Seeker straightens like steel, the edges of a frown tightening her lips and the corners of her eyes.  "Has there been a verdict on whether it is or not?"

Leliana doesn't laugh, but only barely manages to hold it in.  "They're bellflowers and peppermint, they mean affection and gratitude, respectively.  I'm not sure if either of you are familiar with floriagraphy, but I believe the message intended here is to thank you for accepting his feelings, and the scarf is meant to be a favor."  She takes the bottle.  "I'll check the wine for poison if you're that concerned, but I've had this man investigated, and I doubt we've anything to fear from him."

"They're from a _man_?" Cassandra balks. 

Dorian raises an eyebrow.  "I've been told you're somewhat lacking in people skills, but surely my preferences aren't _that_ surprising."

"Of course not, but it's very... elegant, don't you think? Even the most genteel men I've ever known wouldn't know flowers well enough to encode a message in them."

"He's Orlesian," Leliana clarifies.

"Ah.  That explains it."

"But that does mean you know more about him than I do," Dorian says.  "What do you make of him?"

"I thought you'd never ask!" The lady Nightingale produces a bit of bound parchment from her stack of reports, and offers it.    "He's a vintner, it turns out, and a former Chevalier."

" _Former_ Chevalier?" Dorian frowns, but takes the report.  "I wasn't aware it was a position that one can leave without dying." 

_'Nightingale,_

_I have gathered intelligence on Everard de Falaise, but found little of interest.  Why are we looking into this man?_

_Professional:_  
_Chevalier, retired. (By all accounts an honorable dismissal but reasons for this unknown; seems to be well liked among the common folk, less so among the Chevaliers. Will continue seeking details on this matter)  Occasionally serves as sommelier to Imperial Court functions, but a vintner by trade.  Owns some impressive vineyards, and apparently a sparkling white wine of his was popular in the court this past spring.  Might have a background in gardening, lots of flowers around his home, but not much of a house staff._

_Family:_  
_Widower; married to Baroness Adelise Vauqueline, she died in childbirth; two children, Leverett (age 10) and Nicole (age 3). Married into the Vauqueline family but elected not to inherit her title, Leverett is the proper Baron Vauqueline, or will be, when he's of age.  Parents Lydia and Thibalt have retired to Nevarra with land holdings, but no titles. The family seems to be a distant relation of the de Montforts._

_Other notes:_  
_He's got a regular trade with a Dalish clan (they give him herbs, he makes tinctures for them and keeps whatever's left over for herbal infusions for his wines; shrewd but fair), doesn't care much for the Chantry but sings the Chant to his kids, prefers cosmetics to masks (possibly not raised in Orlais?).  At the time of this writing, nursing some minor wounds: burn on his shoulder, and a black eye._

At the very bottom of the report, in ink a few days fresher than the rest:

 _He's an apostate.  A damn subtle one, too._  
  
"An apostate.  That might be why he's keeping his distance," Dorian muses, and hands Cassandra the pages for her to read herself.  "There are mages all over Skyhold, not to mention we'll have a new Divine by next month; she's made no secret about her plans to reform the Circle."

"Does that matter?" Cassandra takes them, skims the lines.  "There has been no conclusion on the issue yet.  All mages are apostates, even if Vivienne had a burning need to imprison this man, she has to place to put him and no authority to do it with."

"It wouldn't have to be Vivienne herself.  She holds a position of great respect and power in Orlais and she has the ear of the Empress, anyone seeking to remove him could use her obligations as Divine against him.  Leverett de Falaise is heir to a noble estate and his mother's title, but Everard has no connection to that bloodline himself." Leliana reminds them. "And the Montforts are a widespread family, with plenty of branches who have lapsed into commoners. It would be a clever move to remove the father, then adopt the son to control the title through him; surely he must know that. The Circles are dissolved for now, but when they are restored, anyone with any skill at the game could win themselves a pet Baron."

"Then, perhaps we should tell her about him ourselves?" Cassandra asks.  "She has no obligation to anyone yet, we could ask her to protect him for the Inquisition's sake."

"But then she'll know," Leliana shakes her head.  "And when she takes the Sunburst Throne, she won't be able to afford lenience.  Whatever action she takes will need to be swift, decisive, and overwhelming.  A minor noble with a weak grasp on his own holdings would be less of a concern than dust on her hems."

The spymaster takes a few steps over to her bird cages, frowning, thinking.  "No. I think it's best we keep his secret for him, at least for now.  It's a valuable one, and if I know my people, he doesn't realize we're onto him. If he becomes a threat to the Inquistion, we'll have a countermeasure in place."

Dorian chuckles, gathers up his flowers, and his wine, and his satin scarf.  "Somehow, I rather doubt that's an issue, but you wouldn't be the spymaster if you weren't leagues better at suspicion than I am, Lady Nightingale. Thank you for looking into this for me. I know it takes resources, even if Corypheus isn't consuming most of them anymore."

She looks back over her shoulder, smile half-hidden in her hood.  "Of course, Dorian.  With Corypheus gone, the Inquisition's new goals lie in building a solid future on the peace we've carved out of this chaos.  We will need allies in Tevinter, and more than allies, friends. Whatever investment we need to make in order to ensure your safety is worth any price. It benefits all of us to respect that." 

"I see.  I'll remember that whenever I'm being fawned over by people I hate at a boring party back home."  He smiles; her words may be steely and calculated, but the warmth in her expression speaks more honestly.  "If you'll excuse me, ladies, I think I'd like to read this letter--"  
Cassandra lights up.

"--in _private_. Maker's balls, Cassandra, go read one of your books."

She pouts.  
  


 


	3. Magnificent, Deplorable Timing

  
It takes him a while to find a place to sit and read in peace.  The library is now a non-option, and the tavern is so far out of the question it's in another book altogether. For a moment, the walls, seem promising until he remembers the patrols and Cullen marching about the place. The garden is full of Chantry sisters and dignitaries, the courtyard is full of soldiers and gossips, the forge is noisy and smells, and the undercroft has Dagna in it.

At long last, he finds the perfect spot: a second, secret library under Josephine's office, musty and full of cobwebs, obviously untouched since long before the Inquisiton took up residence in these lost halls.    It takes a bit of effort to purge the dusty mess and get a bit of light and heat and comfort down in this dank, forgotten corner of the castle, but once there are candles enough to read by and desk enough to set flowers down and chair enough to put his feet up, Dorian settles in with his presents.

The wine bottle is a small one, a tall, slender vessel of blue glass, the cork set with a bit of polished quartz. It has no label but peppermint sprigs and a thin violet ribbon around its neck, secured with a silver flower charm no bigger than a fingertip.  A cautious gift, small enough to be easily dismissed as a token offering, but done artfully, the effort of bottling a small amount of wine in an unusual bottle and stoppered with a crystal more meaningful than the wine itself.

The scarf is lightweight in his fingers, rich, red satin, glossy like a polished river stone and twice as smooth, embroidered in subtle burgundy thread and, at each corner, a tiny garnet bead.  It's flashy in a subtle way, glittering and luxurious to wear, catching the light only at a perfect angle to sparkle at the corner of an onlooker's eye and disappear again.

The letter, when Dorian finally opens it, is written in slightly-uphill calligraphy, as if the letters themselves were penned very evenly but the parchment had been sitting askew on the desk.  There's no romantic spritz of cologne on the page (and of course not, it would ruin the ink), Dorian briefly considers telling Cassandra there is just to watch her make that silly swooning face.  

 

_Dear Ser Pavus,_

_May this letter find you well.  I am given to understand my efforts to reach you in an honorable manner have caused you and yours some distress, for which I hope you will accept my sincere apologies; it has been some time since I had any cause to properly express my affections to someone far away, and I seem to be clumsier at it than I'd hoped._

_Having stared at this page for some minutes with no idea what to actually put on it, I have elected to fall back on honesty.  We spoke briefly at the Winter Palace, and I confess that for the first few minutes, I was barely paying attention.  Between the civil war and the rebellion and the stresses of my own affairs, I found it difficult to enjoy the festivities._

_But you spoke, frankly and bare-faced in a way that I found refreshing, and the more I listened to you, the more I listened to others ignoring you, and you ignoring their ignorance, I found myself enamored.  You were funny and charming, moreso for defying the popular image of the fanged-and-scheming magister, and I liked your smile._

_And I admit that at first, seeing you dash off to save the day when I might have preferred to have you somewhere away from prying eyes, I cursed the circumstances and pitched a coin into the fountain in the hope that it could do you some favor I could not.  Now, with time to think, I am glad for it.  I don't know your opinions on alcove trysts, but knowing that you're a hero who saved Orlais and all the world with it, I think you deserve better, and I am relieved not to have wasted our first meeting on anything meaningless._

_With that said, I present you with these gifts as tokens of my affection.  I would like to see you again, but as I am neither pilgrim, soldier, nor aristocrat, I doubt Skyhold has any use for me.  However, I will be visiting Val Royeaux at the end of this month on business, and I invite you most enthusiastically to join me at your leisure._

_Most sincerely,_  
_Everard de Falaise_  
  
_P.S.  The vintage I have included with this letter is an icewine that I hope will be to your tastes. I find it pairs well with strawberries and a good smoked cheese._

_P.P.S.   I understand you wish to know of your father's reaction to my request of his blessing.  It is a good story._

 

By the time he finishes reading the letter, Dorian has already poured himself a small glass, propped his feet up against the wall, and raised a toast.  "To Florianne," he says to the empty air,  "And her magnificent, deplorable timing."

He downs the wine with gusto, feels the initial chill of it in his mouth turn to warmth in his belly, and lets his eyes drift shut as he smiles.  It's _good._

\--  
  
The third letter is brief.  
  
_Ser Everard,_

_I would be delighted to join you. I assume you'll recognize your scarf._

_\-- D. Pavus_

But it remains unsent, because it's actually the sixth or seventh letter, and the rest are in a small pile next to his desk.   It's not _difficult to write_ , but the brevity sounds curt in his head, dismissive, cold, and anything longer turns florid and pretentious when he reads it aloud.  

In the end, he convinces himself that simply arriving unannounced will do the job (and of course that was _his_ decision, and not at all a lack of options because sending a letter at that point would have it arrive long after it could be of any use to anyone), and with both the wind and the whispers of interested gossips at his back, D. Pavus makes the journey to Val Royeaux.

The city is... itself, when he arrives, all blue and white and masks, everything gleaming and clean to cover up the dainty filth that comes with wealth and privilege.  It's almost cute, and makes him just a little homesick.   Traveling without the Inquisitor is slightly cumbersome; the Herald is recognizable on sight and anyone with her is afforded similar respect, but alone, he is a maskless foreigner. An exceptionally well-dressed one, but still a maskless foreigner, and he realizes too late that Val Royeux is a big place, and without an RSVP or what business he's actually on, he has no idea where to actually find Ser Everard to meet him.  
  
\--

It's later afternoon when he finally gives up looking on foot.   Practically anyone in the entire country could have need of a vintner or a sommelier, and without much of a description beyond 'wears a mask and has a burnt shoulder', no one Dorian speaks to can point him any closer to Everard de Falaise than telling him where his vineyards are.  The name is well known, but the man himself, not so much, and by the time the sun is beginning to set and his feet are aching in his boots, Dorian is certain that he's missed his opportunity.  

He finds an open-air cafe just to get out of the sun and off of his aching feet.   "Table for one," he tells the host. "What are the chances you serve Fereldan ale here?"

"One can find Fereldan ale anywhere one can have a long day, monsieur," he replies, clipped but sympathetic, and leads the mage to a quiet table near a wall, suitable forleaning and absorbing the noise of the street.   "Please make yourself comfortable. I will be back shortly with your drink."

Dorian nods, sits, thanks him, and briefly wonders how difficult it would be to conjure a nice, big spirit-boot to kick himself in the ass.  He'd started off suspicious and paranoid of this man who'd apparently gone to some considerable trouble just to contact him, and now he'd left him with no conclusions to be drawn except that his generosity and his affection had been rejected without a response.

The host returns with a frosty glass of ale and the accompanying bottle, already gathering dew once he sets it on the table.  "Will you be having anything to eat, monsieur?"

"It's a mystery, my friend, ask me again when I've gotten to the bottom of this glass.  I'm sure I'll find the answer down there somewhere."   He half-smiles, lifts it, and takes a long couple of gulps.  It's cold and foams and it's bitter and sweet like bread on the finish, _ugh_ , if anybody back home knew he was drinking this peasant swill, they'd have a fit. 

The thought makes it taste better. Small rebellions always do.

The crowds pass in their way, storefronts closing down as twilight rises over the rooftops and the Orlesian night life begins its lazy, yawning rise.  More and more people stop into the cafe for late lunches and early suppers, meeting friends at the door for a quick drink or a bite to eat before moving on to some other event.

Dorian nibbles at a bit of cheese, people-watching and half-considering finding a party to crash, if only to have a decent story that doesn't end with 'and then I was an idiot and came home', which would just be disappointing.  He's with the Inquisition after all, no reason he can't invite himself to some ridiculous soiree as a representative and make a good impression.  And playing "the one good Tevinter" is satisfying, especially after that whole saving-the-world business.

He drains his second glass as he stands up, leaves a few silver on the table, and knots the scarf around his collar again.  There's still a chance to salvage the night, and there's no point wasting any more of it here--

"Ser Pavus?"

It couldn't really be anyone else, it's hard to miss the two diamond-shaped garnets in the man's half-mask (funny how a culture that constantly wears masks still finds a need for identifying marks), but Dorian isn't certain he recognizes the man just coming out of the cafe's kitchen doors. It doesn't click until he sees a very warm, welcoming smile light up his face, and  _that,_ he recognizes on the spot:  a tall, forlorn gentleman, too caught up in his worries to enjoy the festivities; a dull red stone set in silver that Dorian found himself able to coax back to brightness with a bit of attention, a few timely jokes, and the subtle brush of fingertips against cufflinks and silk.

"The one and only," he answers smoothly.  "Ser Everard de Falaise, I presume?"

"I-- yes, I am," he stammers, surprised, in a good way, and takes a few long strides over to Dorian's table, and in a fashion somewhat dissonant in its politeness, takes off his hat when he offers the mage his hand.  It leaves a fall of loosely-braided black hair to fall over his shoulder before he puts it back.  "I'm afraid I never received a reply from you, I had taken it to mean you had declined my invitation."

"Ah, well.  I'm sorry about that."  Dorian smiles, running a finger along the embroidered edge of his scarf as he clasps Everard's offered wrist .  "I'm an ass about accepting gifts, and apparently I'm not any better at correspondence.  But if you'd be willing to forgive me for that, we can just call this a nice surprise and continue on as if this had been the plan all along. Shall we?"

Everard gestures lightly to the street, inviting him forward and out of the cafe. "If you like, but how did you know I'd be here? Is the Inquisition's reach really that long?"

"I'm not thrilled to say so, but I didn't," Dorian admits.  He heads that way with an easy, slightly-buzzed gait, and the two of them fall into step as they walk.  "All I really wanted was a place to sit out of the shade. I didn't know where you'd be except 'somewhere in Val Royeux', but nobody seemed to have any idea where you were. I'd all but given up."

"You looked for me? Yourself?"

"Well,  yes.  Is that strange?"

"No, I..."  Everard waves the notion off.   "I don't mean that it's strange, but I am flattered that you'd go to that much trouble."

Dorian laughs, partly because the thought is amusing on its own, and partly because it's apparently very easy to flatter this man without going too far out of his way.  Then again, it's apparently very easy for others to assume 'Tevinter mage' means 'wealthy layabout' and is mutually exclusive with 'veteran adventurer', and the thought of exceeding anyone's expectations, even abysmally low ones, makes his smile even brighter. "Considering the trouble you've gone to on my account, I probably owed you the effort. Shall we find someplace to talk? I'm told you have a good story or two."

"Anywhere you like."  The former Chevalier bows politely as he invites Dorian forward,  and tries not to look like his shoulder itches.


	4. A Burn on His Shoulder, and a Black Eye

There's a certain art to crashing parties in Val Royeaux.  Only the most formal of courtly events and the most intimate of private gatherings warrant proper invitations, the rest run on the premise that "anyone who's anyone" will attend, and if you're anyone, you're allowed in anywhere.   A few warm greetings at the door and a bottle of cabernet passed to the host as a gift, and the two of them are welcomed into the home of Madame Whoever of Someplace, it hardly matters.

It's a beautiful home, certainly, all gleaming marble and high windows with colored-glass accents, winding staircases, shelves and shelves of artfully-placed books that have obviously never been opened, and a gallery's worth of gaudy paintings, all of it being tastefully swarmed by tittering nobility.  For an aggravatingly long stretch of time that Dorian is certain has crossed the half-hour mark by the time he gets a word in edgewise, his world is a fleet of dull questions in a sea of masked faces and feather flourishes.   _Are you staying with the Inquisition permanently? What does Tevinter have to say about Corypheus? Is the Inquisitor here tonight?  What will the Inquisition do once Madame de Fer becomes Divine?_

Somewhere in all this, he loses Everard to the crowd.  A part of Dorian suspects that the subject of Vivienne and her inevitable-and-quickly-approaching ascension to the Sunburst Throne is what prompts his disappearance into the faceless masses, but it's not a subject he can so easily avoid himself; he skirts a look around the room, but then some new posh idiot is talking.

"What do you think of all this, Ser Pavus?  You traveled with her, and you yourself are a mage, are you not?" A reedy sort, this feathered-and-hatted man. He talks with his hands too much, fingers twisting aimlessly in the air like he's trying to sift through the conversation.  "What sort of Divine will she be? Marching all over Ferelden in such company, I'm sure it must have made her want for the finer things again."

"It's hardly my place to speculate," Dorian explains, tactfully biting his inner commentary down-- _yes, I know you're trying to bait me, no, I don't care, also if you want anyone to think you've been having dalliances by the smell of ladies' perfume on your clothes, you should wear less of it_ \--   "And since I will be returning to Tevinter, I'm disinclined to try.  However, I do know that Vivienne is very passionate about changing things for the better, and until she actually takes the Throne and sets whatever plans she has into motion, anyone's guess is as good as mine. I'm sure you all must have known her far longer than I have."

The masks make it hard to tell whether his politically-minded non-answer went over well or not, which he supposes is half the point, but then someone is piping up with stories about how lovely Madame de Fer's parties always were, and wouldn't it be wonderful if the Chantry could be more like that?  It's just ignorant enough to warrant a draw of attention that way, and Dorian makes his escape from the crowd when he catches the sight of Everard by the punch.

"Nice disappearing act," he says. "You'll have to teach me that trick sometime."  

Everard hands him a glass.  "I'm sorry. It wasn't my intention to throw you to the wolves like that, I hope you'll forgive me."

"'Wolves' is giving them too much credit. They're more like yapping dogs who don't know whose lap they're supposed to be sitting in."  He rolls his eyes and takes the glass, knocking back whatever's in it without really tasting it.   

"The politics of people with too little power and too much free time," Everard agrees.  "I'm glad you've shaken them off, at any rate."

"Not that I'm complaining or anything, the scramble is awfully fun to watch," Dorian mentions, "but is this the best atmosphere for conversation?  Unless you want to discuss the vanitas portraits, in which case let me start with, ' _blegh_ '."

"Goodness, no, and I'll have to beg your forgiveness. I honestly thought this little get-together  wouldn't see so great a turnout. Apparently word's gotten around that the Inquisition's been in town today." Everard smiles, despite the apology.  "Don't be surprised if you get a thank-you gift from Madame Valentin in a few days; she'll be awfully popular after tonight, thanks to you."

"Ah, more presents? If this keeps up, the rumor-mongers at Skyhold will get bored seeing the couriers."  Dorian grins.  "Good to know the Inquisition can still serve the Orlesian social scene even when the world isn't ending."

"The world is always ending in Val Royeaux. If it's not a darkspawn magister come to conquer Thedas, someone's let the tassles on their hat dip in the punch."  Everard skirts a surreptitious glance toward a room at the far end of the library doors, and nods toward it.  "Coast's clear. Come with me?"

Dorian follows him into something like a conservatory, albeit a conservatory kept by someone who doesn't care all that much for plants.  A few scattered, potted ferns and common flowers line the walls, but the ambiance is nice, and it's divided enough from the main hall that the conversations of the crowd are dampened to a faint, echoing murmur.

At first, it seems like a suitable, if somewhat dull, alternative, until Everard takes a pocketknife out of his boot and begins prying at one of the windows.

"I take it you have a grudge against glaziers?" Dorian raises an eyebrow.  

"Hardly, but-- ah, there we are."  Everard smiles, pushes on the glass, and the entire pane swings outward.  He ducks through it like a low kitchen door, beckoning Dorian to follow as he gets his footing to climb down a garden trellis beneath.  "You didn't _really_ think I'd bring you all the way out here just to parade you around in front of minor nobles, did you?  Of course, if I'm overestimating your sense of adventure..."

"After all these formal letters and flowers I would have thought it's _your_ sense of adventure being called into question, not mine," he says, laughing as he goes to follow.   "Just out of curiosity: you wouldn't happen to be a friend of Red Jenny, would you?"

"Not that I know of, but if I ever meet her, I'd be happy to buy her a drink."  

Everard slides down the last few feet and steps aside, one hand held out for steadiness' sake.  Less because he needs it and more to be polite, Dorian takes it, and hops down the rest of the way.

The trellis ends not in a garden, but a private courtyard, all but overgrown with flowers and apple trees. It's too early in the season for fruit, but the trees shed little handfuls of apple blossom petals with every breeze.  Distantly, somewhere on the other side of the garden wall, the soft music of a string quartet drifts through what would otherwise be silence, and by now the moon is high over the city.

"I apologize for the trespassing, but I think this is a nice place to talk, and the only other way in is actually scaling the garden wall from outside, like common thieves. This way, we're more like cat burglars. That's classier." Everard explains. "I thought you might be inclined to forgive me for that, given how we met."

Dorian laughs.  "Assuming we're not here for an assassination, it's fine."

Everard leads him to a little white marble bench in the middle of the courtyard, and sits.  "I understand you--  ugh, would you be offended if I took off this stupid mask? I hate trying to have actual conversation in the damned thing."

"Feel free. Why bother with it in the first place?"

Everard takes his hat off and works the array of tiny clips and straps off of his head and out of his hair, literally and figuratively.  "It's the Game, hiding your face so it doesn't give anything away."

"Sounds a bit like playing Wicked Grace, but instead of developing any skill at keeping your expression under control, you just slap on a porcelain or metal one instead."

"That's the Game for you. Don't waste your time being good at anything you can sidestep with fashion. I loathe the whole thing."  He sets the mask aside, and the relief of having it gone is plain in his eyes once he looks up again.  It's a face befitting a former Chevalier, bold features and a strong jaw drawn thin by a few great joys and sad years, a heroic countenance lapsed with life in the real world.   

"Much better," Dorian praises.  "You were saying?"

"I was, wasn't I?"  He grins, and it's so much easier without the weight of metal on his face. Or maybe it only seems that way after watching him talk with most of his face frozen in silver all day.   "Ah, right--  I understand you wanted to hear about my contact with your father.  The Lady Inquisitor asked, but I didn't feel precisely right about giving her the details in a letter. I know it's hardly a secret, but it felt like going behind your back about it."

"I wouldn't have minded in either case, I was the one to tell her to ask."  Dorian looks at his hands, a little sheepishly.  "In fact, I was prepared to just toss the whole matter aside as some kind of sick joke, until she pointed out that you'd gone as far as to write my father.  You must have... well. 'Upset' would be the kind word."

"I see." Everard smiles.  "I'm afraid the Lady Inquisitor is mistaken, I didn't write him.  I went to him in person."

Dorian stares. In person?  The words from Leliana's report flash across his mind.   "And... how did that go?"

"Poorly. It went poorly."  Everard laughs, and although it's clear the shiner is long gone since it must have happened, the way he rolls his right shoulder at the mention of Halward suggests the skin is still tender.  "When I went, I thought it would be the standard thing: the giving of gifts, the expression of intent, and hopefully we'd part ways disliking but tolerating each other for your sake.  Obviously, that isn't what happened."

A part of him has to bite down on the laughter that wants to burst out of his face, because for all his grousing and condescension, Dorian's vision of the whole mess clearly hadn't been all that far off the mark.   He manages,  "I see."

"I went to his estate that afternoon.  Right after lunch is always the best time for potentially bad news, you've just had something to eat and it's late enough in the day that you won't look like a complete drunk if you decide to go drown yourself in cheap whiskey afterward.  I met him in the foyer after some servant or another let me in and took the flowers and the wine, he came to meet me, and I told him right out:  I met your son, we spoke briefly but I found him fascinating, and I would like to court him, please let me answer any questions you have about my lineage or my work... it all went downhill very quickly after that."

Dorian holds his knuckles against his mouth. "And what did he say, exactly?"

"Well, nothing.  The poor bastard couldn't get the words out of his mouth, he just... stood there, all the blood in his body was practically going to burst out of his face. Then he made this deeply offended sputtering noise, like somebody filled a wineskin with syrup and peanut shells and stomped on it."

Dorian bursts into laughter.

"That's when he punched me in the face so hard I caught on fire."

It's not funny. It's not funny at all, to hear that this poor man got punched in the eye by a magister for being respectful in his desire to court said magister's son, but the idea of Halward Pavus, a man-- a mage--  so obsessed with decorum and control being so outraged as to be reduced to the outright barbarism of fisticuffs, not to mention losing control of his magic in the process, is too absurd to bear.   Dorian might feel guilty about laughing so hard if Everard wasn't nearly in tears with it himself.

"At first I was shocked, but then I realized my mask had a dent-- an _actual dent_ in it, I didn't think the son of a bitch had it in him-- and... I don't know, it gave me a profound respect for the man."  Everard takes a deep breath, coughs once, and gets himself back under control.  "So I told him I'd show myself out, and left.  I didn't even put myself out until I got back outside, I just assumed I was lucky to walk out of there alive and left it at that."

"Probably the wisest course of action," Dorian agrees, and wipes his eyes.  "He really could have killed you."

"I know.  Honestly,  I'm proud of myself just for making it as far as the front door, so everything after that was just sort of a bonus.  He's the one who embarrassed himself, I got to walk out of it with a couple of scars and a really great story."  Everard beams, and sure enough, there's a tiny spot of fresh skin just inside the bridge of his nose.  

The mage shakes his head.  "And that didn't deter you at all, did it?"

"Well, I didn't hear him say  _no_."


	5. Moonrise Was An Hour Ago

The next two hours are among the most excruciating of Dorian's life, not counting the ones where someone was actively trying to end that life one way or another.

He can hear himself asking questions-- about work, about lineage, the little things he would have told Halward if it hadn't lapsed into burning fisticuffs-- but he's barely paying attention to the answers anymore, recalling in bright detail their moment in the alcove at the Winter Palace. A nameless Orlesian in a modest mask, lingering in the back of the little crowd that had drawn around Dorian and his persistent, foreign aura of Tevinter charm, had made a few cutting observations and brought him a drink.

They'd talked mildly about politics, and the future, and the end of the world that the Inquisition was bravely standing against, and how best to spend one's last moments. It hadn't seemed very important then, casual trysts at lavish parties are barely worth mentioning if they don't end in someone's death, but now, this close, there's new significance to the little details; the plainness of his clothes, the faint, warm scent of cedar cologne, the rigid posture everywhere except in the easy flourishes of his hands as he speaks. Until tonight, Dorian had no idea that "the unadulterated gall to blithely ignore a magister's violent displeasure on the flimsiest of technicalities" was so precisely to his tastes, and under better circumstances, he might put an end to this _proper courtship_ nonsense immediately.

Circumstances being what they are, though, the sudden interruption of an overly-fancy door being opened by an overly-fancy valet startles him just as he's about to reach for Everard's lapels, and that silver mask is suddenly blocking the view of his face faster than a shield-arm stopping an arrow.

"Messere de Falaise! You must have a gift for foresight, arriving uninvited to my soiree, bringing a guest to my home, and intruding on my garden before the presentation." Madame Whoever of Someplace drifts through the doors in a flurry of grackle-feather accents and glittering amethysts and emeralds, fake smile obvious even through the full-face porcelain mask. "And breezing past two locked gates to do so! It's a shame to see such good taste flourish in a man of such poor breeding."

"Ah, we'll--" Everard coughs awkwardly as he stands up, fingers briefly clenching before he clasps them in front of himself. His answers are too hasty, composure ruined first by surprise and next by self-chastisement at being surprised in the first place. "Excuse me, we'll have to continue this conversation another time, it seems-- I should introduce you, this is Comtesse Elodie Courant, Comtesse, this is--"

"Messere, please don't waste my guests' time." She coos gently as she strides towards Dorian and daintily offers her hand in greeting. The expression of her mask is sweetly coy, upturned corners of sculpted cupid's bow lips that lend a bit of mischief to the amber-brown eyes underneath, but gives nothing of the rest of her face away. "A hero of the Inquisition needs no introduction. My Lord Pavus, I am so very pleased to meet you. Orlais, Thedas, and the sky itself owe you and the Inquisition a debt beyond repaying."

That fake smile in her voice blooms to something more genuine with her curtsy, but it's the sincerity of a grinning skull painted on a bandit king's throne, and it's set in her perfect ladylike manners like a stone in a necklace. She'd do beautifully in Tevinter, Dorian thinks, and he takes her hand with equal grace. "So long as the world keeps turning, the Inquisition is happy, but if you're willing to overlook a social misstep here or there, let's just call it even, shall we?"

The Comtesse giggles. It only sounds a little bit forced. "Well, all right, but only because it's you, and you _must_ promise to stay among your own peers from now on. Your reputation is unimpeachable now, but you'll make your entire organization look bad if you start passing time with just anyone."

"Oh, I'm sure I could do worse," Dorian purrs. " _My_ peers are all back in Minrathous, engaging in far more delightful scandals than looking at trees ahead of schedule and having conversations with masked knights."

"The _Academie_ must be exploring some very bold new policies, if it is within the code for a chevalier to break into a lady's private gardens like a common thief for a dalliance." Elodie delicately twists, gesturing to the spot on the marble pathway where Everard's feet are frozen in place. "Unless that's why you were drummed out, Messere? Idle perversion?"

There's tittering in the crowd, and the disadvantage of a half-mask is that it doesn't hide a proper blush. It's fetching, Dorian thinks, but the dusky pink blooming across Everard's cheeks is a fatal misstep in the Game, and every second he goes without answering is another trip down the gilded staircase.

Dorian just smiles, lightly bowing to the lady. "I assure you neither of us are here for a dalliance with your grace's private gardens, but don't be discouraged! I'm sure if you bite Lady Morrigan's style hard enough, some of her allure will get caught in your teeth and something will fling itself over the walls eventually. Enjoy your shrubbery, madame." He turns back to Everard, offers a hand, and nods to the door. "Shall we, then? I don't think there's much reason to stay, proper moonrise was an an hour ago anyway."

The amused and disapproving mutterings among the guests are entertaining, the lady of the house's outrage will be gossip at Skyhold within a week, and Josephine is most certainly going to be furious about the damage to the Inquisition's reputation that its requisite Evil Tevinter Magister has done tonight, but he hardly cares about any of that.

Orlais can wallow in its indulgent pageantry all it likes. Dorian Pavus is leaving a shattered party with a good-looking man on his arm for all the world to see, and the silence of Val Royeaux's utter indifference is a deafening victory fanfare in his head.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> orz


	6. In This Context, It's a Compliment

"...You may have saved my life back there."

It's the first break in the incredibly awkward silence, and with it comes a sort of heaviness in the way Everard's posture sinks. By now, the streets are all but deserted, with even the nightlife winding down a bit. Val Royeaux never sleeps, not really, but it does need a bit of beauty rest every now and again, and it leaves nothing but a brisk wind in the plazas and the glow of lamplight in the second-story windows. Dorian steers them away to a quiet spot on a raised walkway, far enough from that glow to assure at least some measure of privacy.

"That's a bit of an overstatement, but you may thank me as much as you like, I won't complain."

"Well, not my literal _life_ , but my livelihood. Reputation is everything in Orlais, and I'm only a little higher-ranked than a servant in these circles; that kind of confrontation has ruined better men than me. And you've done it at some cost to yourself, you realize. Ripping into a noblewoman like that? Don't misunderstand, I'm not criticizing, but it was... very bold."

"If it's cost me anything, it was nothing I really care about keeping." Dorian hitches a shoulder in dismissal, and smiles. "The Comtesse was right about one thing: my reputation is untouchable right now, and even if it wasn't, being a pariah is one of my most attractive and delightful traits. It tends to free a man from the obligation to uphold the vanity of the ignorant. And the unfashionable, for that matter; Morrigan is many things, but a trendsetter? I think not."

Everard takes a few glances around the street, and assured they're alone, he takes his mask off again, tucking it in the crook of his elbow like a helmet. "Is that the only reason? Fashion crimes?"

The first response in his head is 'well, yes, I've been a volunteer fashion sheriff all my life', but a more genuine answer is right on its heels. "She crossed a line I didn't quite realize I was still holding," he admits, quietly. Dorian leans on the rail overlooking the plaza, making eye contact with a golden lion statue to keep his gaze from flitting all over the place like an awkward lizard.

"And what line is that, exactly? No cool-colored gemstones with warm-colored metals?" Everard sets the mask down on the railing and leans next to him. In a more perfect moment, this would probably be the time to put a hand on his shoulder. Dorian's slightly grateful for that he doesn't.

"Whatever issue she has with you, that's her own business, I hardly care about what she thinks anyway, but... no. I won't tolerate being called "idle" or "perverse" by some masked frillcake with an over-inflated sense of importance, even just in passing, or indirectly. I get enough of that back home, thank you."

"People call you that, where you're from?" Dorian doesn't have to look to know there's a look of incredulous offense on Everard's face, but it makes him smile anyway.

"Not in public, and not those exact words, but.. I'll put it like this. Here, in the south? You can find love everywhere, you practically throw it around like breadcrumbs for the birds. Men, women, elves, dwarves-- I even know a Qunari who brings new meaning to the words "takes all, and I do mean _all_ , comers"-- it doesn't matter. There might be grousing about status here and there, and the unimaginative will always require diagrams, but all in all, no one really cares what two lovers look like or what they do. "In Tevinter, there are rules about what is and isn't appropriate in a real relationship, and the first rule is that it can't be a relationship unless it's between one man, and one woman, preferably both mages with strong pedigrees and one ribbon for "best in show" each. Each carefully-matched pair produces a more perfect generation to mix-and-match in the hope of getting a custom-fitted arse to drop into the biggest, fanciest chair. It does the job, of course, you can tell just by looking at me, but it makes everyone involved completely miserable, it demands the compromise of even the most basic principles of decency, and it's not what I want my life to be.

"And then there's you." Dorian turns, and lifts the end of the satin scarf still loosely draped about his neck, garnet beads glinting in the dim lamplight. "I wasn't going to say anything, but in this context it's a compliment, so here it is: before today, we'd only met once, and very briefly. You asked a terrifying man for his blessing, rejected his obvious displeasure, found another route _after_ he made it clear he was willing to kill you for even suggesting it, sent gifts fit to set Skyhold buzzing with gossip, and crashed a party with me, even after I rather embarrassingly didn't respond to your invitation. So, perversion? Maybe, perhaps she knows something that I don't, you could be a dendrophiliac with a preference for apple blossoms for all I know. But _idle_? Not bloody likely."

Everard laughs; it's honest and loud, a warm sort of sound that wouldn't be out of place in a bawdy tavern somewhere. Without the mask, he seems more relaxed, more like himself, and Dorian finds himself pleased to see that the lines in his face were carved there by smiling. "This! This is why I wanted to see you again," he says, once he's got breath back in his lungs. "It's so rare to find someone who _can_ play the Game like a master, but simply chooses not to. I'll freely admit I'm not very good at it, but my work demands that I play along anyway. I'd be happy to crash more parties with you, if that's the entertainment I'm signing up to see. "

"I'll see if I can find us a good one. Skyhold's full of people who know how to find a good party that deserves an uproar or three." Dorian straightens. "For now, I think I'd like a drink. You're a vintner, yes? Where does one go for a nightcap around here?"

"That's a bit like asking a sheep to find you a wool sweater, but if you have a room in the city, ask for an Alyons clairet. 9:17 is best, very good year for the region, but nothing after 9:31." he says. "Anything later tends to have an unpleasant, vaguely metallic tang to it. Some people find it entertainingly bad, but it comes from bad soil. I don't know what happened out there, but the grapes that grow in those vineyards aren't right."

"I see. As it happens, I did make plans to stay a day or two. Marvelous as Skyhold is, there are certain creature comforts that don't really belong in a siege-breaking castle, and I'm technically on vacation." It takes only a half-step to close the actual distance between them, and this time Dorian lets himself be a little smug about the color rising in Everard's cheeks. He rests his hand on the railing, fingertips subtly sliding along the seam of a satin shirtsleeve. "If you don't have anything pressing tomorrow, we could finish this conversation someplace a bit less public."

He doesn't answer.

The silence only lasts for a moment, but it feels like half an hour, and it's just long enough to tie a cynical little knot in Dorian's stomach. "I take it that was a bit too forward."

Everard draws his hand back, lightly taking Dorian's in his own. It's a long, quiet moment before he finally works up the nerve to speak. "That's not it. I lost my world when my Adelise passed away, and the grief sank me to some very pathetic lows. It got worse when Divine Justinia was killed and the sky was torn open; I couldn't do anything about it, and I couldn't bear the thought of leaving my children alone, even for the relief effort.. I hated serving fine wines to fancy, pompous nobles while the world was burning down around our ears, while a war was diverting attention and resources away from real problems. And then... the ball at the Winter Palace happened." His tone lightens as he speaks, a smile finding its way into his voice, the bitterness fading away as if honey had melted into it. "That feeling didn't go away when we met, but meeting you reminded me that there was still life worth living, _convinced me_ that the world wouldn't end. I owe my tomorrows to you, that will still be true, even if we part ways here and never see each other again. But if there's any chance that you'd want to have me in your life, I want to take it, and I want to give it the respect and gravity that it deserves. That _you_ deserve."

Maybe a courtship isn't what you're used to, if it's so frowned-upon in Tevinter for a man to court another, and maybe I've bent the rules a bit too much for it to be an honorable one anymore, but I meant what I said, and if that means getting decked and set ablaze once in a while, so be it. So, in short, yes, it's a bit forward, and it's too soon for me," he says, offering his arm. "But I'd love to walk you to your door."

Dorian takes it, somewhere between bemused and, surprisingly, pleased. "It'd probably be best if you avoided getting set on fire in the future, if you really want this to continue."

Everard slips his mask back on, garnet stones catching the sheen of the red satin of Dorian's scarf, but it doesn't do anything to hide his smile. "It's fine. What's the point of a heart without the unquenchable flame to go with it?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapters these days ..lots of talking... orz


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